


Memories in the Stardust

by hystericalcherries



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Altean Lance (Voltron), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Development, Character headcanons, Coran "Secretly a Badass" Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe, Hunk "More than Fat Jokes" Garrett, Insecurities, Keith "I'm Gay" Kogane, Keith and Shiro are Adoptive Siblings, Lance "Bi Bi Bi" McClain, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Pidge "Fourteen And Has Feelings" Gunderson, Princess "Fuck You" Allura, Sharpshooter Lance, Space Nerds Falling In Love, Takashi "Doesn't Have All the Answers" Shirogane, broganes, circus AU, klance, minor original characters, sort of, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-08 19:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11088690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hystericalcherries/pseuds/hystericalcherries
Summary: Ladies and gentlemen, amphibians and arthropods, offspring of all ages, get ready for 'The Greatest Show in the Universe!' Yes, that's right!Star's Cradleis back in your solar system! Guaranteed to amaze and delight, come be thrilled by daring feats of strength, courage and aerial grace! Fortune-telling, zero gravity acrobatics, sharpshooting and fire dancing! We've got it all and more!Alternative summary: Lance loses his memory and joins a circus.





	1. First Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enemy of an empire and not even a name to his person.

He remembers waking up that first day, senseless and disoriented. He remembers blinking into total darkness, his heavy breathing and shuddering heartbeat his only companions. He remembers trying to move, listening to metal clank together when he's met with resistance.

He remembers being scared.

“H-hello?” he calls out in the moments after waking, only for the word to twist and die in the stale air when his throat proves stripped with agony.

Silence answers him, overwhelming in its voidness. It links hands with the darkness, crowding him with a singular focus that he's never known before. He makes to combat the dark away- only to find that he can't move.

Suddenly, the doors opens and he is bathed in harsh light, blinding him to the shadowed figures that appear.

He squints, his skin stretching uncomfortably at the corner of his eyes, and tries his luck at speaking again. “Hello? Can… Can you- help me? I…”

Then it’s all loud voices and snarling faces.

Clawed hands rip him from his confines, heavy chains that rub his wrists raw, and tow him out of the large room. He is dragged down tunnels of rock, body limp and head lolling. They march down countless twists and turns, the air changing into something thick and nauseating; his eyes water and his nose stings, but all his croaks for answers are gifted with a sharp command or a nasty jostle. He sews his mouth shut after a particularly painful twist of his arm, listening to the gravel crunch under heavy footsteps and the distant churning of machinery.

There is no mercy when they arrive to their destination and he is dumped on the hard ground, the two figures jabbing him with the butt of their weapons and the heels of their boots before leaving, the heavy _clang_ of a door swinging shut behind them. He cannot move and, so, does not; he simply lays there, eyes creaking open and staring listlessly forward.

There is a hand- his hand, tan and freshly bruised- in his view, and it twitches. Distantly, he can recognize that there is more to his body. The numbness fades slowly and there, yes, those are legs and oh, he has a spine and shoulders. Though with the discovery brings pain. Nothing is spared from the spasms that racks through his entire being, and it takes most of his energy to shift so that he's not inhaling dirt.

But where his body bends, his mind flexes.

There are a great many thoughts that flit through his mind- the where, how and whys- and none of them bring him any closer to the truth of his existence in this moment. Still, he searches, scouring the very edges of his head for explanations. It's amidst the resulting silence that he realizes something.

He doesn’t know his own name.

No matter how hard he presses, scraping every wall and depth, he comes back empty. In fact, there is very little he remembers. At the forefront and fading fast, is the feeling of a soft, leather seat, the sound of humming metal and the weightlessness of falling; it all cuts off with a silent scream, shutting him out.

He blinks back into the now, gray, rock walls there to greet him. Air rushes out of his lungs in a heavy breath and, slowly, his muscles relax from their sudden tenseness. It’s daunting, realizing that there is nothing and no one to fall back on, that he is utterly and unequivocally alone. Just a feeling that there is something- something important and irreplaceable and _his_ \- missing.

His fingers curl and pieces of gravel dig under his nails.

Eventually and with great care, he shifts himself into a sitting position. The ground scrapes the palms of his hands and digs into the soft flesh behind his knees, but he grounds his teeth against the pain. It marginally better, the pain more bearable as a dull ache than what it was previously. It’s at this time that he takes inventory of himself; his limbs are long and smudged with grime, looking pathetic in a skin tight suit made from black, itchy fabric, and when he raises a hand to his head, he feels hair, short and oily. He wonders idly what he looks like.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, but it isn't nearly long enough when they come for him again.

They stomp into view, kicking dirt into his face before they pull him to his feet. He almost crumples to the ground once more, legs shaking in their effort to keep him upright, but he manages. It’s hard, keeping up with them as they guide him out of- what he now knows to be- his cell and down a long, curving tunnel. The smells he had thought he had gotten used to are back and twice as potent, curling around his nostrils until he’s coughing rancid smoke.

_Push._

He stumbles against cold metal, sharp edges jutting into his stomach and thighs, and takes a moment to blink what he’s draped over into clarity. It is contraption of sorts, a soulless black in color and in the shape of a horizontal wheel. There are tubes attached to the walls, vibrating when echoes of _something_ pass through them.

 _Push,_ they tell him again, leveling their guns with the center of his chest, _push or die._

He sets his teeth and does what he's told.

* * *

 It takes a few days, all spent flinching under the short temper of the guards and the grueling work of the caves, but eventually the headaches start to fade.

It no longer feels like someone is carving hieroglyphics into his skull. Thoughts, though confused as they are, flow freely, flirting from one place to another. Finally, he can breathe and stand on his own without fear of stumbling into some hidden trench of memory- nightmares, he begins to call them, jerking to a wakefulness that has him gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. It’s both a blessing and a curse that he never remembers anything.

Though, with this new state of mind comes a realization.

He is a prisoner.

The idea solidifies from the terrible treatment enacted from the non-android guards, always eager to demonstrate their power. _Scum_ , they sneer when he gets too close, watching as he trips from their vengeful shoves and curls in on himself when the heel of their boots dig into his sides. _Enemy of the Empire_ , they spit, shoving him in his cell for the night.

It causes a nugget of dubiety to settle low in his stomach. It's a thought that scares him, grossly churning until he feels like heaving what little sustenance he has all over the floor.

 _What if it's all justified?_ the cruel shadows whisper in his ear while he's nursing his wounds.

Maybe his past, shrouded in mystery as it is, is better left forgotten. For surely he must have done something absolutely terrible to deserve what's been dealt to him, and he's not entirely positive he wants to remember if that's the case. Perhaps he should leave behind those almost-there thoughts- of open space and salty breezes, of jubilant voices and solid touches, of sand between his toes and lost lullabies- because their price- of purple bruises and rapid gunfire, of stinging tears and relentless heartache, of feeling useless and sitting alone- is just too high.

Even so, deserving or not, this life is not for him. For life in the caves is hard. One moment he is pushing the wheel until his shoulders ache, the next he is scrabbling over rocks and clearing debris. The coarse, flight suit that clings to his gangly form does nothing to sooth the scrapes and bruises that the taxing labor delivers; there are stains of sweat and blood spotting his arms and sides, dripping down his neck and drying around his cuticles. Breaks are few and far in between, the only reward to pulling through being the sweet bliss of collapsing at the end of a shift.

His fellow laborers, varying in species and trust, help ease him into the routine of things. There is no outright talk of rules or schedules to follow, but, instead, there is a random three-fingered hand pulling him into line during roll call and a rough nudge that makes him stumble out of the way of a drilling machine. It is in the pointed way the two-headed being with spikes protruding down each neck keeps their eyes angled down when the guards pass by, fists clenched tight enough to draw blood, and in the desperate pleas for mercy the cyborg croaks out while the guards charge their guns.

It is a hard life. One, he fears, he'll die in.

* * *

 They assign him a number.

 _L4782_ , they call him, gesturing to him as he stands in line, shoulders hunched and head down. Like livestock, he is branded with the ugly serial number to match the strange bands of silver circling his wrists and neck. _L4782_.

It's not right, he knows, but it is all he has.

* * *

 When the prisoners are not being used in the mines or taking their daily break, L4782’s holed up in his cell. It's there, back to the corner and legs tucked in close to his chest, that he thinks.

He thinks and thinks and thinks. He thinks about the guards and their shifts. He thinks about the caves and what hides beneath the planet’s crust. He thinks about the reason behind it all, the pressure to work and the viciousness in which it's orchestrated. He thinks about his supposed crimes and the atonement in which he makes. He thinks about the stars and the worlds beyond them. He thinks about families and wonders if he even has one.

Every thought is precious, something to add to the cumulative picture that is _him_. There's little to base himself off of and he tries his best to piece it together, until, finally, there is a semblance of a person.

* * *

 “What do you think we're mining for?” Those are his first words and he nearly startles himself back into silence because _is that his voice?_ It's higher than he expected.

The question is met with stiff backs and distrustful side glances across the table in the large cave that serves as their refectory. The looks are justified, he supposes, conversation usually kept to an absolute minimum when there are guards present; interaction between prisoners isn't forbidden per say, but increasingly frowned upon and put a stop to almost immediately (usually by force). But, L4782 thinks with a quick sneak at the two robots standing ominously at the single entrance of the room, his question is worth the risk.

He isn't given a response, many outright ignoring him and glaring something fierce into the meager bowls of slop that has been distributed out for their (only) meal of the day. Disgusting food aside, L4782 is undeterred.

“Maybe it's worth a bazillion GAC,” he says conspiratorially, eyes roving the table and enticing discussion. Now that he's got a taste of it, he can't get enough- talking is a simple luxury, easy to focus on and become distracted by. “Maybe that's why we aren't allowed to see or touch it. Maybe that's why they keep us here. Free labor they can profit on.”

Squinty, orange eyes atop a cone head meet his, a beard of tentacles quivering as unwilling words form, “It's not for us to question such things.”

“I get why you think that, but don't you ever wonder why we're here?” he asks in a loud whisper, head ducked down low in the pretense of eating. In truth, his spork and bowl lay untouched, forgotten with the prospect of a divergence from bland walls and grueling labor. “What do they do with the stuff we pull out of the ground? What is it for? _Who_ is it for?”

“Those questions are likely to get you killed. Or worse, tied to the Post,” the serpentine figure next to him hisses, scales a hideous green in the low light.

Everyone within earshot shifts uneasily, a few going so far as to superstitiously cross their bands in an ‘X.’ Even L4782 looks away at the name, wincing at the thought of being subjugated to such torture at the hands of the guards. No one has been to the Post in many weeks- L4782 himself has never seen the public display of power the guards enact on those they label disobedient, but has heard enough rumors make his skin crawl at the mere mention of it- and no one wants to be the one to break that streak.

Still… “Isn't it odd that none of us remember our crimes? I mean, we're all supposedly ‘dangers to to the universe’ and have bounties on our heads, but we don't even know why? Isn't that weird? Doesn't that bother any of you?”

Tentacle Face let's out a wobbly sigh. “What is, is.” A hand rises, wrinkled and blistered, and strokes his companion- a individual of the same species, but a dull red in color- under the ridge of their right eye. It’s startlingly intimate. “And nothing can change it.”

“But why?” he persists.

“Because that it how it is!” The serpent alien is harsh in her tone, the edges pricking L4782 like a thorn wanting to draw blood. Her neck extends and the yellow scales there shake dangerously. “Now, no more foolish questions!”

The boy blinks in surprise, leaning back and raising his hands up in surrender. His shocked expression must be enough to guarantee silence because she backs down just as quickly, slitted eyes flickering over his shoulder toward the entrance even as her fangs fold back into her wide mouth.

The table goes silent after that and stays so as they finish their food. L4782 doesn't bring up his questions again.

* * *

 Sometimes L4782 dreams.

He'll lay down on his cot and stare aimlessly at the rock walls, listening to the deep breathing of his fellow laborers in the cells adjacent and across from him. He will sigh, long and wanting and sad, and before he knows it, sleep is creeping over him and his eyes flutter shut- only to open a moment later to a new world.

It is beautiful, the images that stream over the back of his eyelids. Everything is so full of life and color, filling him with an energy so raw that he might implode in a great bang of light. Rather, it is a sea of lights, rippling with the orbits of planets and the smiles of galaxies, that he floats in. The water, so cool and blue and refreshing, laps at his skin, caressing his cheeks with a mother's touch. Creatures swim about him, twirling in the dust of asteroids even as they give kisses that tickle his ankles. Some, bigger than life itself, jump out of the water and into the air, moaning their song with the intent of it traveling to every corner of the universe.

The world turns upside down and suddenly he is falling. A waterfall of memories skid past him, teasing him with images of places he's never been and people he's never seen; he lets his fingertip trail across its rushing surface, in awe of the rainbow of mist it creates. Then there's a splash and he's submerged, limbs weightless as he sits there. Curious, glassy eyed stares and playful flicks of slippery fins greet him, enticing him to join their game of life.

He smiles and laughs, though he doesn't know why. Maybe it is the bubbles that erupt from his mouth, popping against the sharp line where air meets water. Or maybe it is the ribbon of fabric that twists around his chest and between his legs, catching him in an embrace that teases of drowning. Nevertheless, he feels good and happy and whole and thinks that he could happily stay there for all eternity.

But then he wakes up and it's to rock walls, rough blankets and the wails of the desolate.

 _Push or die,_ the guards greet him.

He pushes.

* * *

 “Do you think they'll ever let us go?” he asks one day. His muscles are sore and his feet bleeding, and he so desperately wants to stop and rest, but he can't.

 _Push or die_ , the guards chant from the sidelines, a reminder. _Push or die_.

The figure tethered to him for this work shift is genderless, having large eyes with crosses for pupils. Pink markings run down their sharp cheeks, cutting their face with permanent tears, sad and endless just like the drooping antennae sprouting from their temples. They do not pause at his question, pushing like their life depended on it- and it does.

“No,” they say, and it is the sad truth.

* * *

 Still, he hopes.

* * *

 Life changes.

It is an abrupt change, as they usually are, and one that he doesn’t see coming. It happens on a day like any other, having no anomaly that marks it as different from the rest; he wakes up like he usually does, shuffles in line like he usually does, and works like he usually does.

However, all that changes when, halfway through the day, a voice speaks over the drilling and pipe work. “No longer!”

L4782 pauses in his work, watching with interest as those around him do the same. Attention drawn, he steps out of his designated niche at the wheel, pushing through the multiple bodies that start to pulse forward- all interested to see the source of the commotion. It's only when a burly fellow, skin as hard as rock and spiked tail as long as he is, shifts to the left that L4782 is able to see.

A fourth of a squadron stands at the cave entrance, all carrying their standard blaster and angled in the direction of two figures- a prisoner and the overseer, in a heated debate.

“We've been working for eleven vargas, straight,” explains the alien loudly, humanoid in shape, but missing a nose and yellow in coloration. “We can't take much more of this- it's too much! We'll die before we even breech this planet’s outer core!”

 _All prisoners must work_ , states the head guard on duty, the finger hovering over the trigger of its blaster twitching. _The Empire_ -

“Screw the Empire!”

 _Such slander is considered of the highest offense within the Galra Empire and punishable by death._ More than one blaster is raised, the high hum of a plasma being charged filling the air. The workforce mutters among themselves, slipping onto the slope of hysteria.

He doesn't know why he does it. Maybe it's the way the outspoken prisoner flinches, hands crossing in front of his face protectively. Maybe it's the sound that crosses the tunnel, a frightened whimper. Maybe it's the growing dissatisfaction that makes him seethe whenever he sees the sigil of the Empire. And maybe it's none of that. Maybe he's just stupid.

Well, no matter what it is, it still has him yelling out, “Hey! Leave him alone!” and taking five long strides into the circle, into the spotlight. It still has him shoving the guard away with all his might. It still has him sneering with vicious pleasure when the guard goes down and his weapon flying.

It's not until one of the guards yell, _Treason!_ that he realizes what he's done.

The shackles tighten around his wrists, stinging as it nearly crushes bone, while the collar encircling his neck lets out a high _beep_. It is the only sign he gets that his body is no longer his own, muscles contracting instinctively as his mind rebels at the thought. But his struggle is useless against the alien tech, his limbs moving of their own accord and pulling him through the throng of people. With a jolt, he lands at the feet of his wardens.

One look up and he freezes.

Standing point ahead of the overseer and two animatronic guards is a figure he doesn't recognize, tall and slender with hair a startling white. Light, purple skin looks deceptively soft in the harsh light, muted by those beside him and the dark armor plated suit he wears. Sharp eyes stare down a long, straight nose, features cold like the stinging metal of their chains. He is immaculate in appearance and posture, and there is a twisted feeling inside L4782 when he looks at him- it is unfair, he thinks, that something so beautiful can exist in such an ugly place.

L4782 doesn't know how long he stares, but it's long enough to watch thin lips pull in this shadow of a smile.

 _Why, how the mighty have fallen_ , comes the baritone voice and he starts, surprised at being addressed. There is a certain familiarity in the tone and it makes him uneasy, how naked he feels. _How my father succumbed by such weakness is beyond me, but, I suppose, it doesn't matter now. For I am not my father._

Confused, L4782 opens his mouth to speak, only for the butt of a gun to smash against his temple. He topples over with the force of the hit, groaning.

_Careful of the face. He'll be a nice addition to my collection when all is said and done._

Then those eyes are sliding away, pausing fleetingly on the figure hunched next to him, yellow forehead touching dirt. A slender brow twitches and something flashes in hard eyes, a decision considered and made. Head jerking to the left, the stranger turns away with a flourish; the guards step out of his way immediately, blasters raised in some sort of salute.

 _Take him to the Post_ , says the overseer in his wake and L4782 feels his blood turn to ice.

“No,” whispers his companion on the ground, voice a dying ember sinking to the bottom of a pit. But no one hears him, not when metal arms are lunging forward and gripping tight over biceps, deaf to the frantic pleas that start to pour out. “No, no, no. Please, no, I didn't mean- I recount! I recount, so please! No, no! No!”

It is a useless cause, for the gray helmets blind the guards of benignancy and they carry vindictive lust for violence. L4782, himself, grows numb and submissive to the touch of his captors, staring listlessly forward when they drag him along the short journey to the largest cavern of the mines where a lone, metal post stands. The entirety of the work force follows behind, obedient and silent like specters of the forsaken; it takes a single command, barked and harsh in the stale air, and they are stopping, shoved down to kneel like animals.

The small alien is trembling when they step up to the legendary fixture, crying tears that evaporate once they hit skin as he is hung by the shackles, his back to the masses. The sobs turn into screams as a punishment of fifteen lashes is executed with merciless accuracy. He bleeds red.

L4782 doesn't look away.

The show goes on for what seems like an eternity, until, finally, eternity is over. The whip, a primitive weapon with a tail of sparking pink energy, fizzles out and they are left in the aftermath of despair, broken only by muffled sobs and the clack of metal footfalls.

Strangely, when the laborers are ordered back to work, L4782 is left. Chains snap to his shackles, tying him to the ground, and he watches from under heavy lids as the masses file out, heads down with not a twitch in his direction. It's disappointing, but not surprising. It's a survival of the fittest lifestyle in the caves and, at the moment, his chances aren't looking too good.

Time passes and silence reigns.

“You know,” comes the whispers in the dark a good few hours into the night cycle, startling L4782 into attention; if he turns his head just so and squints hard he can just begin to discern the darker shade of black that makes up his unfortunate companion. “I had hoped to see my family before this was all over.”

Family. L4782 has often heard of them, heard snippets of stories and memories that his fellow prisoners have divulged in times of vulnerability, when the night is quietest and the dark most stifling. He knows the individual in the cell next to his has three sons, identical since the day they hatched, and that they loved playing games, switching clothes and demanding their parents to guess right; he had stopped hearing this particular story in his second cycle when a guard had taken the babbling senior out for an interrogation and never returned (but he tries his best not to think about that). He knows the pain the word brings.

“What are their names?” he asks because he is weak. Though he has nothing, he craves for more- constantly _more, more, more_ \- never realizing that it is this greed that leaves him unsatisfied. Even in this situation, of open wounds and tight chains, he searches for what he cannot have. “What are they like?”

“I don't know,” comes the broken reply. “I- I can't remember.”

And isn't that the truth of it all.

Soon after that, the tears start to come and L4782 curls into a ball, pretending the warmth he feels is that of a family long lost. When he closes his eyes, he dreams of taking to the sky and flying far, far away.

* * *

 He wakes.

The body across from him does not.


	2. Shackled to Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends in unlikely places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm really bad at this 'update at a timely manner' thing. I usually write the end of stories first, which means my first couple of chapters are completely barren and my last ones are all but finished. It's a bad habit, especially for someone so prone to procrastination.

“Where are you taking me?”

The guards that guides him provides no answer. Instead, he is shoved forward, forced to march down the rocky shaft with not an inkling of what's to become of him. It's gnaws at him, the unknown, crawling just underneath his skin and breaking out into a sweat when, after a few minutes of walking, they come up to a pocket of space with metal framing the walls and three imposing doors set behind a hexagonal booth.

_Prisoner L4782 present for transfer._

A nod and the sentry stationed inside is pulling a lever, the utmost left door groaning as it lifts. A gust of wind rides out, running cold fingers over his cheeks and forehead.

L4782 balks at the darkness, absolute and frightening in its entirety, but a quick shove has him stumbling forward. The light tries to cling to his form, but loses its grip as he walks, dimming until a bleary line stalks anxiously at the edge of the room; the guard doesn't seem to care about the lack of light, gait steady even as they're encompassed in obscurity. With quick work, L4782 is taken to the very edge of the room and the chains attached to some fuliginous object that he can feel actively staining his hands when they bump against it. Another tug on his wrists and then the guard is turning away and leaving.

“H—Hey! Where are you go— don't leave me here!” Apprehension swirls in his gut and he leans back as far as the chains will allow, trying to follow their form. It's no use, because as soon as they cross that bridge back into the light, the door shuts as slowly as it had opened, a tease at facetious freedom, and he's cut off from the rest of the world. “Come back! I—I’ll do the work! Please, just— come back!”

His words don't pierce through the thickness of the metal, bouncing back and taunting him with a distorted echo. A drop of sweat runs a trail down his temple and he licks his chapped lips, waiting.

Nothing.

Once again, he’s left alone. Alone with his bleak thoughts. Alone with his frantic heart. Alone with his cold chains. Alone.

Even with all his time in the mines, he had had the pretense of companionship with the other prisoners. Sure, they weren’t on the friendliest terms and there was never a guarantee he would be seeing them the next day, but there had been a sense of skittish unity. Different in mindset and species, but not in circumstance. The same cells confined them, the same shackles bind them and the same memories escaped them. They knew each other's pain.

Somewhere beyond the walls, there’s a low hum and the echoes of machinery ominously clicking into place. He stops his tugging and strains his ears, forcing his breathing into something even. The sounds get louder as the moments tick by, haunting groans that vibrate the air and L4782 along with it, and he struggles to differentiate its possible origin.

Clarity finally arrives in the form of a hiss and three muted beeps. He’s heard it before, after he and the rest of the slave force were forced to load the mysterious substance they mine for onto hover platforms and cart them to the docking stations. It’s the only time the prisoners are allowed near the shipyard.

A countdown to launch.

L4782 yells out in fear when his world tilts abruptly and he starts sliding, falling to his knees when even his chains cannot keep him standing. Fortunately, the ship he finds himself on stabilizes almost immediately. At the same time, the shutters rise from the walls and, heart still pounding, he looks up. He gasps.

Stars.

Thousands upon thousands of them, blinking in the backdrop of startling black. It is a blanket of darkness with crystals of light sewn into every stitch, twinkling with the stretch of distance that can’t be crossed by anything less than deities. It’s transcendental, like an out of body experience. He’s never seen such a sight— at least, not that he remembers.

Vaguely he can feel the pressure of anxiety curling in the center of his chest, instinctively trying to ignore it in favor of beholding the breathtaking sight before him, but it’s a useless endeavor. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes, obscuring his vision of the stars and dampening his cheeks, and he cries in the foreground of desolate hopes and heavy chains. And when he runs out of tears, the dusty floor between his knees dotted with their pitiful lifespan, and runs out of things to cry over, with nothing else to do, he waits. He waits for something to happen, for the chains to brake or the stars to disappear. He waits for memories to return, for the guards to come back, for the vacuum of space to steal his breath, for his heart to give out.

He waits to die.

It could be minutes or eons before the ship stops, he doesn't know. All he knows is the unstable silence that follows, notable in what it lacks. Notable in how it’s broken, amidst gunshot explosives and cosmic madness.

He can hear the engine halt, the thrusters cut off, the haunting clacks of heavy latches shifting into place and the whir of gears starting up, a symphony of machinery that nearly drowns out the ominous thuds and bangs he can make out from the other side of the door. And when the doors finally groan out in wakefulness, lifting up like the eyes of a sleeping god ready to pass judgment, he waits for the eternal absolution. For the guards to come down on him, guns charged and visors glinting, willing to execute his punishment. He expects conviction and condemnation.

He does not expect deliverance.

Smoke rolls through the opening and into the cargo hold, masking his vision and clogging his throat; he chokes on a cough that shakes his entire body. He only just gathers his breath when there are heavy footfalls and figures cutting through the vapor, and, instinctively, he tries to run. Only he cannot, chains keeping him in place, vulnerable.

“—told me there was livestock on board,” someone is saying.

“Hey, don’t look at me. The logs say it’s an armament shipment.” One of the figures steps forward and prods his shoulder, making L4782 jerk back as far as he can go. He looks up and blanches, watching the large, green face lean in closer, their ivory tusks and golden nose ring screaming danger. “Maybe he’s the weapon?”

Someone slaps the hand away, ignoring the small ‘ow’ it elicits. Another face comes into view, this one thinner and more impish, with wide, pupiless eyes. “Does he look like a Galran weapon to you? He can barely stand as it is.”

“Stiper, Han, get out of the way— can’t you see that you’re scaring him with your ugly mugs.” A pause filled with his loud gasps. “Hello? Can you hear me? What’s your name?”

A touch to his chin and L4782 flinches.

“Oh, you poor soul. Look what they’ve done to you.” A click of the tongue and the touch disappears. “And they call us monsters.”

When he doesn’t receive a blaster to the head, L4782 allows himself a look. The figures are huddled in a circle around him, but none make no move to hurt him. They are diverse in species, some large and looming, others small and slightly, but all share the same expression: pity.

The one dead center kneels down until she is level with him. Her features look female, with smooth, blue skin and angled, glowing eyes framed by thick lashes and plump lips, but her body is not; broad shoulders fill out a magnificent coat that pools around sharp hips, tapering into tight trousers and high boots. She tilts her head up slightly, lifting the shadow her hat casts from over her eyes, and captures his gaze.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” she says, voice quiet. “I am Captain Nimbus of the Smoky Amethyst, heir to the Nacryst throne of the Solex System. Will you come with me and my crew? We’ll take you someplace safe.”

L4782 doesn’t know if he trusts her words, but he nods anyway. Anywhere is better than here.

She gives something resembling a smile and breaks their gaze, nodding to one of the figures huddled around them. “Han, remove the shackles.”

It’s an order and it is followed immediately and without question. The small crowd parts for the alien from before; L4782 regards them cautiously, edging away from their saltatorial legs and gaunt fingers, especially when they move into his space and grasp him around the wrists. They crane their neck down and bob their head, croaking out a harsh hiss, and soon a gob of spits drips over his restraints, sizzling and deteriorating before his very eyes.

The alien’s grip doesn’t slacken and his hands are arranged so that his palms face upward, baring the locking mechanism to the world. They run their both index fingers along its length, digging pointed nails into the crease of its plating, and pull.

Almost immediately, fire erupts in his veins.

“—appened?”

L4782 gasps for breath, blinking away the balls of light that flicker across his eyes. Cold hands have moved to his biceps, keeping him steady, hanging halfway between stubborn aggression and whimpering submission.

“It’s the shackles, Captain. They’ve got protocols set in place to go against any non-Galran attempts at unclasping them.” A few fumbling moments where the restraints are examined further. “I could try, but the it seems to be powered by unrefined quintessence and that could go any number of ways.”

The small crowd surges backwards, a loud murmur riding through them like a wave.

The captain’s sculpted eyebrows rise. “ _Quintessence_?”

“Wha…” is all he can manage through the pain.

The captain, still within reach, tries to soothe him, calloused hand wiping at the sweat that collects at his temples. Their eyes illuminate their shared bubble of space, tinting it pink. “He must be important if the Galra would rather have him dead than out of their possession. Who are you, little star?”

He trembles through the aftershocks, unable to give an answer he doesn’t know.

* * *

After that, time is a blur, hazy with the fever of pain.

Vaguely, he can understand that he is moved. Hands, slipping under his knees and around his back, lift him up and take him… somewhere. The world rocks underneath him, but he is too tired to snap things into focus. Too tired to mumble his thanks when he’s set down on something that’s not hard rock. Too tired to fight the heaviness of his eyes.

* * *

He dreams of a lost kingdom hidden away at the bottom of an endless ocean. It gleams in the water, inviting and fitting snug in the chamber of his heart. He walks along its drawbridge, toeing the line that could have him falling into the abyss, sighing when the gates fly open and he’s allowed entry. He spins a dance through its vast halls, torches of blue fire lighting his way, exposing centuries of slumber to the waking world.

Figures float around corners and under chandeliers, blurry faces angled his way and beckoning him closer. Their armor shines in the grime of battle, capes of seaweed and fracturing light moving with the current. Eager for their attention, he offers his hand and speaks a riddle. But when they open their mouths to answer, a roar strikes the space between them.

Then he’s rising to the surface, grasping at the bubbles that pass him by, cradling the words that erupt from their hold.

“Do you know him?” Pop, an expulsion of air in the form of a question. “What have the stars told you?”

A breeze along a shore, a sigh in disguise. “I have foreseen his arrival. The universe is still recovering from the blow of war and will need its champions.We must aid him.”

The tide shifts and he along with it.

A brush along his neck and he shivers, heavy lids opening. A shadowy figure stands over him. He weakly cranes his head up to squint at it, discerning four arms and two sets of eyes, all of which zero in on him. Eyes, colored obsidian and reflecting the light of torches, are staring straight into his. Double eyelids blink, taking in all that he is, bruised skin and shaking bones. Thin lips part and he spots a gray tongue.

“A Paladin of Voltron.”

Then everything goes dark.

* * *

Eyes fluttering, he slowly descends into the groggy state of consciousness. It is not a gradual process, but all at once. One moment he is swimming in a sea of aimless thought, peaceful and naive to the strife of life, and the next he is jerking to attention, eyes flying opening and with a gasp of breath.

L4782 sits up, surprised to find soft, jacquard bedding lifting up to meet his scraped palms. The bed he finds himself on is unfamiliar, as is the room it habitats; the walls are bleached, accented with a light blue and shiny silver, exhibiting an extravagance that’s mirrored in the furnishings. A large dresser, a vanity, two side tables, and multiple candelabras takes up the entirety of the space. When he swings he feet over the side of the bed, he feels the line where the rough texture of the rug meets the tiles of the floor.

When he tries to stand, there's a unpleasant pinch at his side and he hisses, body automatically curling toward the focal point of pain. His hand brushes something that isn’t skin and he looks down, noticing the white wrappings that run a band around his middle. A dust of red stains the otherwise pristine gauze. A strange noise slips past his lips when he dips his fingers and adds some pressure to the spot.

Before he can do more, the door is blown open and someone is clamoring, “Oh! You're awake— excellent!”

L4782 nearly takes a fall whipping around at the sound of the new voice, wincing when it makes the makeshift stitches at his side pull unpleasantly.

There is a figure standing in the doorway, bathed in a warm light. They are androgynous and small in stature, skin a light purple and dark, silky hair brushing over their top pair of eyes and curling around their pronounce jaw in a bob. Beautiful, sheer fabric covers them, streams of orange crossing along their front and falling gracefully to their slippered feet.

“Who’re you?” he demands, instantly on edge. He braces himself on the bedpost and tries to look as menacing as he can. “Where am I? What happened to me? Why am I injured?”

They pause just in the room’s threshold, taking in his antagonistic tone and defensive stance. All four of their arms lower, palms outward in a blatant show of peace. The sight makes his head spin.

“They called me J9524 in the colony,” they say slowly, taking a deliberate step forward. The action nearly distracts him from her words, but it clicks nonetheless. _They’re from the caves_. “But you can call me Zaryn.”

“You have a name.” It is such a shock that his legs forget how to work for a moment and he stumbles a bit. He quickly reaches out for the nearest piece of furniture, an ornate dresser the color of eggshells, and reestablishes his balance. “How do you have a name?”

“Not everyone remains blind once they leave the dark,” comes the cryptic answer.

He doesn’t understand what she means, but decides that he doesn’t care. Instead, he takes a deep breath, wincing when his side pinches again. He glances at the bandages and frowns. “I don’t remember getting this.”

“You wouldn’t. You were unconscious when it happened. There was quintessence lingering in your system from the shock given by your shackles.” They incline their head to his wrists, still encircled by cool metal and he has to fight the urge to hide them behind his back. “The overexposure was too much for you and you started thrashing in your sleep, accidentally impaling yourself on a knife when we were moving you from the ship to a gurney.”

“Oh,” he says, a little chagrin at the less-than-impressive way he’d been injured. “You patched me up.” And this statement is not a question, but a fact— or maybe even an accusation. He, himself, can't tell.

His companion seems to gauge his thinking, because they give him a small smile. “If it makes you feel better, we can just say you owe me?”

It does, if only a little.

He scrunches his nose. “You also called me something before. It’s all a bit fuzzy, but I remember. You called me a… a pal—”

“A Paladin of Voltron.”

The words are familiar in the way his body is— they are both things he’s grown into. It’s got his head spinning, scrambling to make a connection and coming up empty. “Why? What is that?”

“It is what you are.”

“That— that doesn't make any sense.”

“Not everything has to make sense. Some things just are— like you. Like me. This meeting, for another. It was foretold.”

L4782 gives them a look, not sure if what their telling him is truth or what they believe to be true. Both are disheartening. “By who?”

“The universe.”

“And… the universe told you to bring me here…”

“Oh no, the universe didn’t tell me to bring you here. That was the marauders who found you chained up on some Galran battleship.”

“Marauders,” he repeats dully. Then it clicks. “Pirates? Are you saying I was saved by bonafide space pirates?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Their eyes squint in the effort to hold back what he knows to be a smile. “They are quite nice, so I suggest you give them a formal thanks the next time you see them, which might be sooner than you thing. Marauders are welcome in  only a few places in this solar system and Nimbus does own a sizeable share of the land on the docks. Not to mention, she’s Nebula’s favorite sister.”

“And who is Nebula?”

“She own the place.”

“And where,” he starts, pausing to lick his lips. “Where is here? What is this place? This— this isn’t the caves.”

“No, it isn't. We are far from the colony— systems away.” There is something in their eyes, an understanding that makes L4782 embarrassed. They look empathetic, like L4782 should know more, like he doesn’t deserve what’s been given to him. It’s entirely different than what he knows to be true. “But here, I can show you— that is, if you'll let me.”

They offer a hand.

“I don't…” He hesitates, already angling away, but a string of doubt pulls at his wrist, having it hover in the air between them. His insides squirm anxiously, recalling the mines and the fractured wish of liberation he had hopelessly entertained. Here it was, presented in the cusp of a stanger’s palm, ready for the taking— all he had to do was take it.

He exhales through his nose loudly, and decides. “Okay.”

Zaryn smiles, this time showcasing the small points of fangs. It should worry him how easily he lets them tug him forward and slide a supporting hand around his waist, but he ignores the invading thoughts. Ignores it when he finally see _it_. Sunlight, warm and wonderful, streams through the sheer drapes falling over the large window and L4782 follows the golden glow like a flower, taking measured breaths as they step forward and through the balcony.

The first thing he notices is the sky, a bright blue. It’s as if someone took the oceans of his dreamscape and flips them upward, the puffy clouds of soft yellow and flying aircrafts made of wood and polish metal looking like coral and fish. Buildings of a various sizes expand as far as he can see, reaching ever higher, decorated with stained glass and bright tapestries and spiraling vines of violet. People, looking like ants from such a height, bustle about the cobblestone streets, wearing togas and sashes and suits in every color known to him.

It's beautiful.

He must accidentally say that last part out loud because sharp canines slip past a full upper lip to flash in a bright smile. Zaryn throws out two of their hands in a wide gesture. “Welcome to life on Aeserith’s third moon, Xuin!”

* * *

L4782 has only a few moments to gape at the splendor before Zaryn is ushering him back inside.

Every wall is covered with paintings, dramatic brush strokes bringing to life scenes he can't even begin to comprehend; one has an aviary being stabbing a long sword through the chest of a  monster with multiple rows of teeth, another with a planet mid explosion, and a third showcasing two humanoid shapes caught in an intimate embrace. Long, skinny couches line the walls as well, broken up by potted plants and small tables, the biggest easily triple his length.

The ceilings are high, rising along pristine columns and elegant arches, light reflecting off the chandeliers of crystals in a reflection of the night sky. Curtains of rubies hang from brass rods, dramatic in their curves and length, their thick tassels brushing along a marble floor in a tepid dance after every stray breeze.

Grand hallways and even grander rooms await him beyond the antechamber, waving their extravagance as he passes by, head angled and neck swiveling to better take it all in. Alabaster forms lean around columns and pose on pedestals, carved so intricately they look one breath away from coming to life. A handful of eyes look his way, stone and organic alike, blatant curiosity etched into their fine features, remaining unabashedly so when he catches them and stares back.

“I know it can be a little much,” Zaryn is saying, the hands not holding onto him making vague shapes toward their surroundings, “ _Star’s Cradle_ — that's what the locals call this place— is always bustling with something or another, but, don't worry, you'll get used to it.”

He nods absently, following their quick steps when they make an abrupt turn and stride into a large, round doorway marked with squiggly symbols and glittering bead chains. Two statues of feminine figures holding vases stand guard, smiling coyly at him, uncaring of the liquid marble spilling from their grasp.

The resulting area is open and relaxed. The walls are white, blue patterns running up their spines and along their moldings in elaborate detail. Slabs of stone protrude from the walls, ascending in height in a stairway that leads to hidden story with sheer fabric of turquoise and gold. A sumptuous fountain stands at the center of the pool that dominates the room, jets of water making graceful arcs in the air before erupting in a symphony of spray; yet another statue— that of a women, naked and beautiful— sits on the main platform. Looking the epitome of leisure as she kneels, one hand splayed off to the side and the other keeping her upright, she angles her head over her shoulder, looking to the newcomers with an expression of utter sobriety. Water leaks from her droopy eyes.

Belatedly, he takes in the thin rails that lead down the main circle of steps to the pool and towels folded neatly to one side. Glasses of all sizes line the wall, stoppered, but not labeled, and he wonders what they hold.

“If you're to stay, you'll have to look the part.”

He frowns, tearing his gaze away from the cultivated beauty. “Look the part?”

It's then that his personal space is completely disregarded and someone is pushing him towards the water. He flails, caught off guard, and stumbles back, watching as his newly acquainted companion follows after with a determined sort of look. Hands that are not his own reach out and start peeling away the suit from his skin.

“W—What’re you doing?” He tries to fight off the hands, but they outnumber him four to one, what with his left arm braced against the nearest column and out for the count lest he wants to fall over the water’s edge. “This is— excuse me, can you not!”

“We're going to take off this ugly thing and incinerate it,” Zaryn tells him with finality. They somehow manage to get one arm out and are working on the other, their lower left hand holding him steady as he tries to lean away. They end up in a cheap imitation of a dancing dip. “Stop fighting me. It'll go faster if you let me help. Don't you want to be clean?”

He does. The suit is starting to chafe, and maybe it’s because of this place with its flowery scent and spotless surfaces, but he feels inherently dirty in the shabby garb. Still, it's the concept of the matter.

“I can undress myself, _thank you very much_.”

He slaps those insistent hands away while bracing on his front foot and maneuvers them around in an effort to give himself some space. It works— Zaryn scowls, but relents, raising all their hands and backing off.

L4782 squints, refusing to move until the other huffs and half turns. Satisfied, he finishes stripping, only suffering minimal embarrassment at the prospect of flashing someone he’s barely even met. Though it doesn't matter anyway since Zaryn seems to have no notion of decorum, not batting an eyelash at the sight of him. They go ahead and shove him into the pool.

It's a weird affair having someone bathe him. But mostly, it's embarrassing.

(“Don't!” he squeals, pushing them and the dual loofahs they're armed with away from his nether regions for a third time. A flush rides high on his cheeks and dips down his chest. “I can do that myself!”

“Oh, please,” they say, “like there's anything down there that could tempt me.”)

The clothes offered to him once he dries himself are the softest things he's ever come into contact with, sliding over his skin with an ease that makes him sigh. The shirt is light and billows in the breeze coming from one of the open windows, an arrondi pattern of pink lace traces its edges, matching that of the ones running down each pant leg.

Then Zaryn is grabbing his hands and massaging a pleasant smelling lotion along the scraped ridge of his knuckles, smiling faintly when L4782 murmurs his awe when the puffy red scars and scratches fade before his eyes. More ointment goes on his feet and face, fingers featherlight when taking care of his split lip and tender cheekbone. Gone are the callouses and blisters, leaving way for the smooth caramel skin that glows in the morning light, looking like it's never suffered even the most minuscule of papercuts.

“There— now you're looking like you.” Zaryn reaches into a bag he hadn't noticed before and takes out a stylist of some sort. “Just one more touch and you'll be done.” They fiddle with the thing, twisting its end until it clicks and starts humming softly. “I think blue will do nicely. Something to bring out those eyes, yes?”

He has time to blink and then they're cupping his face and holding him steady while they whisk the stylist under his eye in a quick swish. There's a prick of pain, followed by another when they do the same to his right eye.

“Ow!” He begins to complain, but it's already over and something is being shoved in his face.

It's a mirror.

The first thing L4782 notices is the nose, straight and pointed at the end, centering an angled face. Next is the mouth, a thin upper lip that offsets the pouty lower one, parted in surprise. Sharp cheekbones lead to an even sharper chin and continues down a long neck. Brown hair parts in the middle, curling around his temple and round ears.

He's not hideous, he decides eventually.

Experimentally, L4782 raises a hand to touch, only to jerk back when the stranger in the mirror does the same.

“It'll sting for a few vargas,” Zaryn tells him, meticulously putting away all the bottles and tools, “so try not to agitate them.”

He doesn't say anything. It's hard to do anything but stare. Though the words do give him a point of focus. There, positioned under his eyes and strongly contrasting with his dark skin tone, are markings he's sure weren't present in the mines. They look like wide arrowheads, the curve of them them framing the outer corner of each eye, and are a bright blue in color.

It takes a while to distinguish why they look so familiar, but eventually it comes. The woman in the fountain has markings to match. And he has a vague suspicion that that's not a coincidence.

“How do I look?” he asks to hide the weird jump in his pulse.

Zaryn leans in closer and raise a hand to cup his cheek again and he shivers at the touch, distinct and overwhelming, but remains still as he meets their eyes. It's a little unnerving how they don't blink and he doesn't know which pair of eyes to look at, eventually settling for the lowest one and shuffling from one foot to the other as they regard him from under steely lashes. Pupils dilate in an eclipse, swimming in a pool of cosmic dust that swirls and consumes. At its center, his reflection.

“Like a star,” they finally say, expression eerily smooth as the words dribble out their lips and down their chin. “You look like a star.”

It sounds like a warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The circus aspects of the fic are coming next chapter! Till next time, guys!

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've been wanting to write this for, like, EVER and just recently found the motivation to actually do it. Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> Come talk Voltron with me at my [tumblr](https://www.hystericalcherries.tumblr.com).


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